The Lord, our Lord, how rich His grace!
What stores of sovereign love
For humble souls, that seek His face,
And to His footstool move!
He pleads the cause of all His saints,
When foes against them rise;
He listens to their sad complaints,
And wipes their streaming eyes.
He takes away that dreadful cup
Of fury and of plagues,
Which justice sentenced them to drink,
And wring the bitter dregs.
He gave it to their Savior’s hand,
And filled it to the brim;
Their Savior drank the liquid death,
That they might live by Him.
Now take the cup of life, He cries,
Where heav’nly blessings flow:
Drink deep, nor fear to drain the springs
To which the draught ye owe.
We drink, and feel our life renewed,
And all our woes forget:
We drink, till that transporting hour,
When we our Lord shall meet.